come back to bed
by jennifermorisons
Summary: the five times stiles found himself in bed with lydia


The first time it happens, he wakes up screaming.

It's late and he's tired, and Lydia is rubbing his arm soothingly, her voice shushing him and mumbling sleepy terms of endearment at him. Stiles is too out of it to realize something's wrong; or maybe he just wants to linger in the dream for a moment, just wants to continue to pretend it's real. She nearly nuzzles into his shoulder and her hair smells amazing, and he wants nothing more than to wrap an arm around her waist and tug them both back into the tangled twisted sheets of his bed and go back to sleep. That's when he remembers he's already asleep, that Lydia wouldn't be caught dead in questionably clean sheets, in his house, with her skin pressed against his. The illusion shatters, the creaking of his door punctuating just how alone he really is, and he forces himself out of the warmth and safety of his bed to shut the door, to keep whoever it is lurking outside of his room at bay. He knows it's just a dream, he knows Lydia isn't really there, but the urge to protect her is still strong. She's screaming now, begging him to come back to bed. In another lifetime those words would have stopped him in a heartbeat, but in this one, he reaches the door, and Lydia's gone without a whisper. He doesn't have time to mourn the loss of his dream girl in his dream bed; screaming overtakes his body and images of that damned tree permeate his mind. He wakes to a bed soaked with sweat on one side and cold and unused on the other. He wakes to his father's arms around him, not Lydia's. He wakes to disappointment.

The second time it happens, Stiles can prolong the lie.

There's sunlight streaming through his window, even though his bedroom faces west to put off the morning for as long as possible. It should still be dark in his room, but he knows better than to question it. Lydia's pressed against his side, her breathing deep and even and her hair strewn out on the pillow next to them. Her hand is over his heart; if she were awake, she'd hear it beating fast. Too fast. He doesn't remember how they got there. He doesn't care. He just wants to enjoy this moment before his dream warps into something unholy, before Lydia sits up and becomes his chemistry teacher, or Isaac, or some sort of demon they thought they killed with the last batch of crazy it seemed like they were always suffering through. She doesn't, though. She just keeps on sleeping, even when Stiles runs a hand distractedly through her hair. He even checks for breathing, but her chest is still rising and falling evenly. She's at peace. He should be too. And as he relaxes, he wakes up, alone. Cursing comes out of his mouth like bullets before he can stop it, he punches his pillow once, twice, and then slams his head face first into it with a long groan. It was the first good dream he'd had in over a month, and it was gone like a gasp of air. Rolling onto his back, he ran a hand through his own hair, forced his eyes shut, and willed the dream to start over again. It didn't, and when he woke up for school an hour later, he could swear he smells her perfume in the air above his bed. He hates himself for his vivid imagination.

The third time it happens, it's reality, but strictly platonic.

Scott and Allison are sitting at his desk; well, Scott's at the desk, Allison is on it. Isaac is going through his stuff when he thinks Stiles isn't looking, and Lydia…well, Lydia's sitting on his bed like it's her throne, her legs tucked delicately underneath her and pages spread out in front of her. She barely bends to read them, and with curls spilling over her shoulder she looks for all the world like a queen, like she belongs on the bed he made specifically because he knew everyone would be coming over that day. They're studying, one of the few solely human gatherings they'd been allowed in what felt like decades, but Stiles isn't getting much reading done. Allison was quizzing them in some sort of mock Jeopardy game, but Lydia was blowing them all out of the water so thoroughly that they agreed to stop. And now it's late, and it's getting later with each passing moment, but no one makes a move to go. It's cold outside, frost on the grass - the closest Beacon Hills ever got to snow - and it's warm in the house. Besides, Stiles has food. So he shouldn't be surprised when Isaac falls asleep sitting against his dresser, pretzels still loosely clutched in his fist. He shouldn't be surprised when Allison murmurs about needing to leave but doesn't hesitate to agree when Scott suggests she stay. He shouldn't be surprised that they slip out the room and head downstairs with the couch in mind. And he isn't, not really. He's surprised when Lydia suddenly stretches and yawns, sweeping up papers with one delicate motion and setting them on the nightstand. She asks if she could crash, but phrases it like a statement, and Stiles could never deny her anything anyway. He reaches up to take a pillow, intending to sleep on the floor like Isaac, but she seems offended at the very idea of putting him out of his bed. So she makes herself at home against the wall, wrapped up in his comforter and falling asleep within seconds, while he lays stiff as a board the entire night, terrified of touching her. She wakes up well rested; he barely slept a wink.

The fourth time it happens, he should have seen it coming.

She took him to prom. Not the other way around. She drove, refusing to arrive in his beat up old Jeep, and when they danced that night, she led. Stiles didn't mind. He paid for the hotel though, and he worried all night that she'd think it was a step too far, that she'd think he was expecting something. But as they stand outside the room, room key held between lightly shaking fingers, she doesn't seem irritated. She seems…giddy. Maybe it's all the punch they drank, but they both feel lighter. For the moment, they're just teenagers, staying out all night with dubious parental consent and a hotel room all to themselves. It's not big, it's not too fancy, but Lydia insists she loves it as she kicks off her heels and flings herself onto the bed. Her hair is disheveled from that one leap, and Stiles has never seen her look more childish or beautiful. He thought jumping on beds was beneath Lydia Martin, and he's never been more glad to be wrong. (Except maybe for that time when he thought she might have been the one doing ritual human sacrifices, but he tries not to think about that. Ever.) They jump on the bed for nearly an hour, laughing and yelling and throwing pillows at each other. He knows she would rather have been in a room with Allison, but he's glad she agreed to do this with him. They wear themselves out and the next thing he knows, she's picking out pins from her hair in the bathroom while he sits on the bed, fiddling with his tie. She's talking to him about what everyone wore, what she thought of the food, and it strikes him that he wouldn't mind doing this every night, in a house, in pajamas, with some sports game on the tv that neither one of them cared about while they talk about their days and their lives. His throat gets tight, but he lets himself imagine it for just a split second because he's just seventeen and he's in love and he's human and he's oh so weak. She gets in bed in a tee shirt he didn't know she'd packed with a flash of lace underwear peeking out the bottom. She kisses him before he knows what's happening, undoing his tie with her hands and dropping it in his lap before pulling away. He thinks she says thank you, but his mind's a little fuzzy, and she's laying down with her back to him now anyway. When he finally manages to get comfortable and hunker down on his side of the bed - half ready to make a pillow wall between them - she reaches for his hand. He wakes up with her fingers still curved around his.

The fifth time it happens, he still can't believe he's not dreaming.

He wakes up with a hoarse yell. His heart feels like it's going to pound out of his chest, and Stiles grabs for it like it might do just that, and his palm is the only thing that could stop it from getting out. Lydia's up like a shot, her own hand encircling his wrist and her arm enveloping him carefully. She's soothing him, calming him down, and before he knows it he's relaxing and dropping back down to the pillows with a loud sigh. He takes her with him on accident, and she lets out a noise like a yelp when she falls back. He apologizes, she waves it off, and they're conducting a conversation in whispers like they did when they were teenagers and he was only dreaming. Bad dreams, weird omens in the night, it happens when your best friend is an alpha and your girlfriend is a banshee. It's just stress, she assures him, her fingers running through his hair and her nails scraping gently against his scalp. He's not so sure, but he nods and hums in response. His throat is still too sore to tell her what he was dreaming about; maybe he never will. At any rate, he can't rest anymore, so he rises quickly and without warning, heading to the window to rest his forehead against the cold glass. Stiles nearly moans at the contact, not realizing how hot his skin had been up until then, and if she were next to him, Lydia might be fussing over him, worried he had a fever. But she was still in bed, sleepily asking him to come back to bed. The dreams would pass, just come back to bed. He stiffens for a second before remembering he's not sixteen anymore, and he turns with a smile. He tells her he once had a nightmare where she said that exact same thing, and her sleepy puzzled expression banishes any trace of evil his dreams brought into their apartment. She's more awake now, right as he's starting to relax and get back under the covers, demanding to know under what circumstance she would ever say such a thing and the dream still be a nightmare. He kisses her once to placate her, and then again, just because he can. He urges her to go back to sleep, and she mumbles something he doesn't quite catch in his efforts to catch her around the waist instead. He pulls her against him; gone are the days of stiffly laying as far away from her as possible for propriety's sake, and she molds her body against his with a happy sigh. He wakes up with natural sunlight streaming in the room and a very awake Lydia on his chest, her chin bracketed by her hands as she studies him in the morning light.

She asks him what made him frown in his dreams, her finger tracing lines on his forehead, and he wiggles his eyebrows in an attempt to disrupt her movements. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that in some deep dark place of his heart, he still counts all her fingers when he wakes up, and reads the coffee tin to make sure it's not just a dream. All her fingers are intact, no extras, and a poster on their wall still reads the correct band name, so he doesn't see the sense in worrying her. Instead, he kisses her, wrapping an arm around her waist and rolling her onto her back. After all, he's living the dream, not the nightmare. He might as well enjoy it.


End file.
